


Nailed

by roquentine



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:38:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/362049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roquentine/pseuds/roquentine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A vignette told in nine 100-words-exactly-no-seriously-count-them drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nailed

**Author's Note:**

> Archiving. Originally published on LJ in 2008.

* * * * *

He finds out purely by accident.

Jack, propped up on one elbow, strokes a slow, formless, endless line on Ianto's back with a fingertip. Ianto drifts, quiet and motionless in the post-fucking daze. For no particular reason, Jack changes the angle of his finger and draws the broad side of his nail gently up Ianto's spine. Ianto inhales, lifting his head perhaps a centimeter off the pillow and issuing a brief, muffled moan before relaxing again. The entire reaction takes less than a second.

"Interesting," says Jack, almost to himself.

"It's nothing," Ianto replies, too quickly, really.

"Right," says Jack.

* * * * *

Interesting because Jack has covered every inch ( _every_ _inch_ ) of Ianto's body with his hands, and his lips, and his tongue, and he doesn't remember Ianto having an unusually strong reaction to contact with the skin in the center of his back.

And Jack remembers everything.

The next night, before he draws the nail along Ianto's spine, with perhaps a _bit_ more pressure this time, he makes sure his other hand is resting on the back of Ianto's neck, which _just happens_ to prevent Ianto's head from lifting off the pillow, which, in turn, elicits a decidedly more emphatic groan.

* * * * *

The _next_ night, there is an actual nail. Just there, lying innocently on the bedside table among the other, more necessary elements.

Ianto notices it as they are undressing. A shiny, silvery, brand new four-inch nail with a broad, flat head. And a point.

"Sir..." Ianto hesitates. His eyes drift from Jack, to the nail, back to Jack. Back to the nail.

"Yes?" Jack usually corrects that form of address here, but it amuses him tonight. He watches Ianto stare at the nail, and almost hears the synapses firing in Ianto's brain, processing the implications.

"Never mind."

The dear boy.

* * * * *

Ianto thinks he knows when it will happen (after), but then the rules are changed.

He rolls to his stomach as in the normal course, but when he arches his back... resistance. Jack is pressing him flat again.

Ianto is momentarily confused, until he feels the hand on the back of his neck.

He tries to keep his breathing even. He tries to stop the reflex that thrusts his hips into the mattress. He _tries_ , because he wants Jack to think he is just playing along. That he doesn't actually care.

That he hasn't burned for this, the whole time.

* * * * *

Ianto is patient because he realizes there is a natural progression to this. Jack _will_ soon do what he has started to crave more than anything else.

So Ianto holds on, painful as it is. He sucks in air through his teeth as the head of the nail scrapes up his spine, over and over again, sometimes digging in, sometimes as light as a feather.

He moans, and bucks, and pleads, until finally, finally, Jack turns the nail around.

One strong, sharp, slow line is all it takes, and Ianto lets himself come against the sheets for the first time.

* * * * *

Eventually, a threat to remain still or suffer the consequences replaces the hand on the back of the neck.

It's because Jack remembers (everything) that the base of Ianto's hairline is _sensitive_ , and he wants it to be available, and he knows Ianto will obey. __

_obey_ becomes his first word, actually. The lines start out white, then slowly darken to red, and come into relief, just a hairsbreadth high.

The first time, it melts away a bit too quickly. He traces the letters again, harder, slower. He licks at the word, blows on it, until Ianto begs to be fucked.

* * * * *

At some point, Jack begins to feel off-balance. Something's not right. He can't be specific about it, though, not even in his own head, where he doesn't need words. This annoys the shit out of him, as usual. He comes up with a test.

One night, the nail is missing from the bedside table.

Ianto doesn't react, doesn't say anything. He's a good boy, and the night passes much like any other night that came _before_. He is eager, passionate, playful. Submissive.

Jack is concerned, still -- something _has_ changed -- but the next night, the nail is back.

* * * * *

They go on his neck, his back. Lengthwise down his spine. __

_boy toy. scream. inside. possess. harder._ _pretty ianto._ __

_obey_ , naturally. __

_mine_ is a favorite. _yours_ , less often. __

_betrayed_ , on a bad night.

The whole thing is beginning to agitate Jack. Now there are words he thinks he _should_ write, but he avoids them out of spite, because he knows they're the ones Ianto would want most. __

_should. won't. never._

He doesn't think it happens, but sometimes, as he's writing, he imagines Ianto in the bathroom, twisting awkwardly, trying to read the latest inscription. __

_STOP,_ he writes, in mirror image.

* * * * *

"What do _you_ want me to write?"

It's a trick, obviously. There are far too many wrong answers.

"Whatever you think I should say." Ianto holds his breath.

Jack is done.

He spells out the words ( _F...U...C...K... T...H...I...S...)_ and runs the nail, hard and fast, straight down Ianto's spinal column, hurling it across the room when he reaches the tailbone.

When he looks down, he sees that he's drawn blood.

"You win," he whispers sharply, and falls to his back beside Ianto.

Ianto fights both the tears stinging his eyes and the smile pricking his lips. He knows it is over.  
  
* * * * *

 


End file.
